


Unhooded

by RumRaisinRegret



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abelas Likes to Cook, Angst, But mostly fluff, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Female Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Eventual Non-Inquisitor Lavellan/Abelas, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Multi, Past Female Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Post-Tresspasser, Slow Burn, at least for now, but just a little bit, tevinter nights spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23658940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RumRaisinRegret/pseuds/RumRaisinRegret
Summary: Some new recruits join Fen'Harel's growing army. Abelas is tasked with finding out if they are trustworthy. He finds himself drawn to Varda Lavellan. He didn't know what to expect from her, but it turns out she's exactly what he needed.
Relationships: Abelas/Female Lavellan (Dragon Age), Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> We'll see where this goes, shall we? I've never had anyone else read my writing before. I have a few chapters of this planned out. Hopefully I can stay focused and disciplined long enough to type them up.

They were late. The recruiting party that was supposed to have returned two weeks ago, hadn’t made contact in longer than that. Until last night. The scouts had burst out of the Eluvian dusty and panting as if a demon had chased them through the Crossroads. Message runners sprinted into the command tent where Abelas and the other generals were having a strategy meeting. The returning scouts were only half a day ahead of the rest of the recruiting party and they had a private message for the Dread Wolf’s ears only. Fen’Harel finally raised his head at that and followed them to where the scouts were catching their breath.

And now here was Abelas pacing in front of the raised dais where the Eluvian sat, an hour past midday the following afternoon waiting for the rest of the party to show up. The scouts had been vague as to the nature of the delay, stating only that several of their party had been injured and their recovery slowed the journey. The Dread Wolf had been the only one to receive a full report. 

Two of Abelas’ most veteran Sentinels were with them as escort. He wanted to make sure they were both healthy and whole before he could concentrate on training the new recruits. But they were late again. An hour late. Abelas started pacing again.

A hand found his shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Calm yourself, lethallin.” He turned to see Fen’Harel giving him a knowing smile. “I am sure that Adhlea and Souren are well,” he said. “They are both capable warriors. The scouts did not report any casualties.” He lowered his hand and returned to staring tensely at the dull mirror.

“Of course, Fen’Harel.” Abelas stilled his nervous agitation and stood at his leader’s side. He eyed the other elf carefully in his peripheral. His mind turned to something else that was concerning him. Why was Fen’Harel present for the return of a recruiting party? For that matter, why did he seem so anxious for their arrival? The party was bringing something with them. Something he had told them to keep an eye out for specifically. Perhaps they had recovered one of the artifacts they still needed for the completion of their plans. But if that were so, why hadn’t he shared the report with his generals? Abelas squared his shoulders and sighed just as the Eluvian activated. He would have answers soon enough.

Adhlea was the first one through, hood raised but eyes intense as always. Abelas felt some of his tension ease. She was followed closely by an agent he knew by sight alone and five unknown elves who he assumed were new recruits. They all looked startled to see the Dread Wolf waiting for them just on the other side of the Eluvian. The antlers and snout of a hart were the next things visible in the mirror, followed by the rest of the animal carrying a figure in gold armor with his right arm in a sling and a bandage covering half his face. Abelas suddenly had a sickening knot in his stomach at the sight of Souren in such a state, but he stood his ground as the rest of the party appeared on the dais. 

Once the Eluvian deactivated, there were four more harts with injured riders, two more hooded elves on foot, and a halla pulling a small Dalish aravel. Adhlea stepped forward to speak with the two men on the ground as healers rushed to help the riders from their mounts. Abelas clasped her forearm and she hopped the short distance to meet them.

“What happened, Lea?” 

She laughed bitterly. “A dragon happened. Just outside Wycome. We practically stumbled into her nest before she showed herself. Souren and I managed to hold her off until he took a fireball right to his face.” She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead as if she could still feel the flames. “The others were set upon by a clutch of dragonlings. Would have been dead if it weren’t for the group from Clan Lavellan that was passing by.”

Fen’Harel started at the name. Ah, that’s why he was here.

Their attention was diverted by an increasingly loud argument in front of the Eluvian. One of the last two elves to have stepped through the mirror was trying to help the wounded, but the healers from their clinic were preventing her from touching them. Her quiet insistence that she was only trying to help just made the chief healer’s face grow redder in anger as he yelled at her to back off.

“Hey, hey, she’s alright,” Adhlea cried, running back to the group. “She’s a healer, she tended them the whole way here.”

The healer looked like he still wanted to argue the point, but a stern glance from Fen’Harel as he came up behind Adhlea silenced him. He and the rest of the camp’s healers continued to lay the injured onto stretchers, now with the help from the new arrival. Once they were secure, the healer cast a spell and the stretchers started levitating toward the clinic in the encampment as the healers followed. 

The recruiting agent, with a deep bow to Fen’Harel, led the five uninjured recruits in the direction of the barracks. That left the woman who had helped the wounded and an older man with Dalish vallaslin standing on the dais with them.

Adhlea turned back to her superiors. “This is Varda Lavellan,” she said, motioning to the woman. "She is a proficient healer. Our people would still be in bad shape if it hadn't been for her." Her arm moved slightly to the left, “And this is her father Radavur. He is a blacksmith of considerable skill. I’ve seen some of his work.”

The two figures lowered their hoods, and Abelas heard Fen’Harel’s breath catch in his throat. Abelas looked at their dark crimson hair swaying in the breeze, catching the sunlight, and understood why. They had the exact same hair color as Inquisitor Elentari Lavellan. The nature of the Dread Wolf’s relationship with the former Inquisitor was known to only a very few in his inner circle, but Abelas who had seen them in each other’s presence first hand, suspected that feelings ran deeper than the official story. May yet linger even still. These two had to be relations of hers to some extent, though beyond that one feature he saw little resemblance.

Fen’Harel stepped forward, his hand to his chest and his head inclined slightly. “Andaran atishan,” he said politely. “Thank you for helping my people out of danger.”

Radavur mimicked the Wolf’s stance but with a deeper bow. “Sathem lasa halani, Lord Fen’Harel. We did what we could. Serannasan ma. Your kind welcome is most appreciated.” He raised his eyes to their faces. “My daughter and I are not warriors, but we request the honor of joining your cause, if it pleases you. We pledge to use all our meager skill to help further your goals.”

Fen’Harel raised a brow at his archaic phrasing, but did not mention it. “Your efforts would be appreciated, but how do I know your word is trustworthy? I am familiar with Clan Lavellan in name, though I have never met your Keeper. I doubt she approves of your decision to leave them, as you are the first of your clan to join us here.”

Radavur stood to his full height, which was not much considering present company. Even his daughter towered over him. But he still managed to look proud enough. “No, my lord, she was not pleased. Our Keeper has forbade us from returning.”

That was a concerning development. Despite the Dread Wolf’s declaration to help what remained of the People, there were still so many who refused the offer. So many who chose to believe the twisted history the Dalish wove for themselves. Abelas crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Then why leave?” he asked, shaking his head. “And if we do not accept your allegiance? If we turn you away? You and your daughter will be homeless.” 

“Yes,” the old elf sighed, “but that is a risk we are willing to take. We want to join you because that is what my bond mate would have wanted. She was an ancient like all of you. She would have believed in your cause. She hated her time in subjugation to the goddess Sylaise, but she also loathed her time wandering in confusion at the diminishing of her magic. She longed to see the world of ancient Arlathan restored. I join you in remembrance of her.”

Abelas was surprised at that. He looked over Radavur before him and saw little more than the shadow of the true Elvhen as he had in the past known so many of the Dalish to be. Then his gaze was drawn to the daughter, to Varda as her eyes met his, and he saw the truth in her father’s words. She wore no vallaslin as most who were raised Dalish did. Her features and stature showed she was truly a bridge between both worlds. Her hair and her ears, the delicateness of her features, belonged to her father’s people, but her nose and bone structure, her eyes, the color of spring leaves through which a golden sun shone, were undoubtedly from her mother’s people. From his people. Abelas quickly turned his attention back to the bald elf at his side. 

Fen’Harel thought on Radavur’s words a moment. “Devotion to lost loved ones is a strong motivator. I accept your aid.” He turned to Adhlea. “Find them quarters and a place to set up their aravel. And then get yourself some rest.”

She turned a grateful smile to him and bowed. “Yes, Fen’Harel.” Then she led them and their halla into the camp.

Fen’Harel stood silently at Abelas’ side for a long while. “I don’t entirely trust them,” he said at last.

“Entirely?” Their eyes met briefly. Fen’Harel quirked a smile, but Abelas looked away first.

“No, not entirely.” He rubbed his chin. “We need to know if they have a significant relation to,” his voice faltered, “the Inquisitor. If she’s been in contact with them.” Then he caught Abelas’ gaze again. “Find out.”

Abelas very nearly spluttered. “I am no spy.”

“No, you’re not.” The Dread Wolf smiled wryly. “But I seem to recall you having no qualms saying rude things to complete strangers. Be as frank as you like, subterfuge need not be employed.”

Abelas sighed, nodded. 

“I know I can trust you with this,” he said and his eyes softened. “I suspect you’re the only one to truly guess my history with-,” he glanced away, “Keeping that in mind, you’d know what questions to ask.”

Abelas nodded again. “I understand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Elvhen taken from Project Elvhen by FenxShiral.  
> • Andaran atishan – Welcome; this is a safe place  
> • Sathem lasa halani – Pleased to give assistance/help  
> • Serannasan ma – Thank you; a very archaic and rarely used wording


	2. Varda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varda recounts the events that led her to Fen'Harel's camp and explores her new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer than the last. I'm hoping that I can continue to make them about this long or perhaps slightly longer once I start to get the hang of writing again. Although I admit, I'm having a bit of trouble finding Abelas' voice, and my original idea was to alternate POV every chapter between Abelas and Varda.
> 
> Also I gave her father a bit of an accent that pretty much just amounts to him dropping the letter "g" off of the end of his words because I'm crap at doing accents.

When Varda awoke the next morning, the sun was streaming through the branches above her head. She squeezed her eyes shut and rolled over, hoping to get a few more minutes of precious, fleeting sleep. That’s when a songbird flitted to her bedpost and began singing at the top its tiny lungs. She glared up at it through one squinted eye. “You just had to ruin it,” she grumbled. It stared at her quizzically, hopping in place and puffing out its feathers in that twitching way of small birds, before taking off through her bedroom to the other side of the enormous tree she was to call her home. She sat up slowly, still wishing she could fall back into the Fade. Unfortunately, sleep never came easily to her once it had been interrupted.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and curled her toes on the smooth wood planks of the floor. She stood and stretched toward the boughs above her. As she crossed the short distance to the basin on the table at the foot of the bed, she looked around her new home. In the twilight of last night, she couldn’t explore all of its dark corners, but now she took it all in. She was on a raised platform around the trunk of a large broad-leafed tree. A bed, a writing desk, a small chest of drawers, and the table with the basin took up one side of the platform, a tub and an armoire the other. There were walls around the periphery in strategic places where privacy would be most wanted, but ultimately, the room was open to the surrounding branches. The foliage was thick enough to provide adequate concealment, but there were places where one could stand at the edge and look out over the camp on one side or the mountains on the other. 

Varda conjured some water into the basin and warmed it. And as she swiped a dampened cloth over her face and arms, she reflected on the events that led her here.

**************

Only weeks ago, just outside Wycome, the city she had called home for a few short years, she and her father along with several other craftsmen from her clan were gathering materials. They were ankle deep in wetlands that in five hundred feet opened into a wide beach and the ocean beyond. She had bent to cut off another of the reeds she used to weave her baskets, when they heard the roar of the resident dragon.

The locals knew to avoid the gully where she made her nest, but any unsuspecting travelers through the area would likely be caught unawares if they ventured that way, especially since she had a penchant for sitting, quietly concealed, with her young under her wings, until the prey was well and securely within her territory. And it certainly sounded as if her current prey were putting up a fight, something no herd of wild ram could do. One quick glance amongst the group of elves and they took off at a run up a steep rise toward an overhanging ridge that would provide a line of sight down into the dragon’s nest. Being craftsmen, none of them had been trained as warriors, but most of them had bows and were decent enough hunters, her father included, and they had Varda. She was an outcast amongst her people, but they all still knew what she could do. Had seen demonstrations of the ancient magics her mother had taught her even if Keeper Deshanna never continued the education. They had no reason to fear the dragon if they kept well enough out of its way. 

At the bottom of the small canyon were a group of about a dozen elves trying to escape dragon and young. There were two arcane warriors in gold armor at the front covering the rest who were dragging three of their number already fallen unconscious and bleeding.

Varda stood and slammed the butt of her staff into the rock, sending a spike of ice up into the dragon’s belly. Beside her, an archer released an arrow that found its intended mark in the dragon’s eye. The beast shrieked anew and in its frenzy, released a jet of flames that one of the warriors failed to block. He fell screaming. A dragonling immediately pounced and clamped onto his left arm. The female warrior stabbed it in the neck and slung her fallen comrade over her shoulder in one swift motion. 

Varda slid down a gravelly slope to position herself between the angry mother and her fleeing prey as the twang of bowstrings sang behind her. Another elf fell to dragonling fangs before she got there. She sent a bolt of lightning arcing through the dragon young, knocking them back. The dragon breathed fire again, but it rebounded harmlessly off of the shield wall Varda cast. Her father slid to a halt beside her and yelled to gain the group’s attention.

“This way!” he motioned to a narrow pass through which the dragon would not be able to pursue.

He and Varda bent to each sling one arm of the fallen man over their shoulders and made toward the thin opening. The rest of the elves followed them in a panic, tripping over each other to make it through, but dragging their wounded behind them. Varda conjured as thick of an ice wall as she could manage to seal off their escape. The sound of claws scraping against ice could be heard from the other side.

The group wound their way through the pass until they came to a place where it opened onto flat ground. They found the craftsmen from Clan Lavellan waiting there for them. The wounded were shifted so their weight was shared more evenly, and the enlarged group hurried to safety outside of the dragon’s territory.

Once they knew they were beyond pursuit, they stopped to take stock. Varda tended to the more serious of the injuries, the burns on the male warrior’s face being the most grievous. The female warrior, having introduced herself as Adhlea, went about staunching the blood flow on someone else’s shoulder.

“We need to get back to the city,” Varda proclaimed, her hand hovering over the warrior’s cheek as a blue aura enshrouded it. “This is beyond my skill to heal in the field.” 

The trek to the city gate took the better part of the afternoon with being as careful as possible of the five injured elves. Word was sent to Keeper Deshanna and she met them at the elven hospital in the lower part of town. Varda and the Keeper spent the small hours of the night making sure none of the dragon’s victims died. When there was a few minutes of breathing time, Adhlea told them their purpose in travelling to Wycome was to recruit elves to join Fen’Harel’s cause. 

Deshanna’s expression turned instantly to indignation. She stood and demanded the group leave the city. The injured would be healed enough that they could travel by horseback, but nothing else would be done for them, and no Wycome elves would be leaving with them to join the Dread Wolf.

Varda and her father shared a hard look and then he stood, too. “We will be goin’ with them,” he quietly declared.

Deshanna took him out of the sickroom to try and make him see reason, but Varda, still tending the wounded, could hear them arguing through the thin wall for several more hours.

The next morning, Varda was clanless. She packed her meager belongings into the small aravel that had been in her father’s family for three generations. They led it with their halla Gavemah to the city gates where Adhlea waited, having procured five harts for the injured to ride. The group now consisting of fourteen elves, left the city without looking back. No one from Clan Lavellan watched their departure.

It took them nearly a fortnight at their slow pace, by the end of which there was a friendly companionship forming amongst the group. Souren, the wounded warrior, was overtly grateful for the care and the attention he was receiving from Varda. Adhlea kept expounding to Radavur how desperately they needed a good blacksmith at their camp. They were getting to know everyone until at last, they approached an Eluvian where three guards met them on the other side. Adhlea gave them a whispered message and two of them took off to deliver it. 

The next day they met Fen’Harel.

Varda had been under no impression that he would welcome them with open arms, but he also didn’t turn them away. They were led through his camp. It was clear that every person they saw was preparing for a war; troops practicing drills, weapons being sharpened, soldiers sparring. The camp was in a thick forest dotted with tents and wagons, occasionally an aravel, but there were also some wooden houses being constructed on the ground and in the trees. Radavur was taken to where he would establish a smithy. Construction could begin within the week.

Then in the dying light of the day, they were shown to a small clearing where they could set up their aravel. The clearing was entirely encircled by giant trees, most with stairs spiraling up the trunks into the branches. Adhlea led them to one, mumbling about its previous occupant recently perishing on a covert mission, and proudly stating that this is where they would be staying. Then she gave them both a hug and declared she was going to go have a bath and sleep for two days.

After she left, Radavur guided Varda to the stairs. “You go up,” he said, wearily. “I prefer to keep my feet on the ground at my age. Gavemah needs tendin’ to anyway.”

She furrowed her brows at him. “Are you sure, Babae?” But she was too tired to put up much of an argument. She grabbed the small bag of her belongings and extra clothes out of the aravel and climbed the staircase.

She was too tired look around the first level of her new tree home either, other than to confirm there was no bed in it. When she found the bed after ascending another spiraling set of stairs, she was barely able to undress herself before crawling under the blankets. She fell into a blissful, dreamless sleep even before night had truly fallen.

**************

Now, adequately bathed (she eyed the tub with longing and promised herself later) and dressed, she went in search of breakfast and her father.

On the lower level, she found a sitting area with a couch and two upholstered hassocks, a dining table that could probably seat six if she found some more chairs, and a small, plain kitchen. It had an ice box, a cupboard under a worktop counter and a stove. She thought a stove in a tree house built entirely out of wood an inadvisable idea at the least, but when she examined the heating rune in the top, found it was designed specifically to keep the fire where it was meant to be. She checked the ice box next. It was empty and warm. She would have to refresh the rune in there before she could store any food. The cabinet was barren as well, not even a ration biscuit to spare.

Well, breakfast would have to be acquired elsewhere. She went in search of her father.

Their aravel stood alone in the middle of the clearing, its red sails fluttering in the breeze. It was surrounded by grazing halla. Gavemah trotted up to her as she approached.

“I see you made some friends,” Varda said and found the spot between the ear and the base of the horns that she knew the animal liked to be scratched. Gavemah lowered his head to nibble on the hem of her tunic in response. She brushed the creature off with a “Don’t start that,” and continued to the aravel.

Her father was not there, but she did find a pan, covered and nestled in the mostly cooled embers of a fire, which contained sausages and some hearth bread. She snatched them up, blessing her father’s name.

Walking back through the camp to the only other place she could think to find her father, the future site of the smithy, made her feel like some rare creature on exhibit in a zoo. Heads swiveled around to watch her pass and occasionally two people leaned together to whisper. She had passed several such groups when the name Lavellan was uttered loud enough for her to hear. She grit her teeth and walked faster. It seemed the name had become famous everywhere now, and despite her not being the right Lavellan, she still felt the consequences of such fame: gossip. She was relieved she had at least had the foresight to tie her tale tell long red hair in a tight knot on the back of her head.

When she finally spotted her father, he was tracing the outline for a forge and bellows with his steps, and talking over his shoulder to the group of workmen who would be building the blacksmith’s stall. He turned to watch her approach.

“There you are,” he said and he beamed that big smile he reserved for his daughter alone. “I was beginnin’ to think you would sleep the whole day.”

She chuckled at that. “I’ll admit I was tempted. Thanks for breakfast, by the way. How are you getting along?” She gestured to the men who had gathered around a table drawing up plans for the new construction.

“Good! Faron here,” he said clapping a muscular elf on the shoulder, “says they should be able to start diggin’ the posts tomorrow mornin’.”

Faron, who she assumed was a foreman of sorts, nodded at her. “Once we get the posts set and the gravel laid, the walls and roof should not take long at all. Radavur may have a smithy up and running in three weeks’ time.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That soon? You don’t waste any time, do you?”

He shook his head gravely. “Lord Fen’Harel wishes to expand our armory as quickly as possible. We can’t do that without a blacksmith.”

“Of course.” She looked around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Her father smiled good naturedly at her. “Always willin’ to help, huh, even if it means tryin’ somethin’ you never done before. Best leave it up to the professionals,” he chuckled. He reached out and squeezed her arm. “Besides, I heard that Souren was askin’ for you. You better not keep him waitin’.” He gave her a wink and pointed her in the direction of the camp clinic.

She grumbled at that, but set off through the camp again, anyway. After the healer’s reluctance to accept her help yesterday, she wasn’t sure the clinic was a place she wanted to visit.

And while Souren’s… enthusiasm… with her presence was sweet, she didn’t want to encourage whatever affection might be forming on his side of their acquaintance. She wasn’t here to fall in love. Her father on the other hand, felt quite the opposite. He had been trying to find a suitable mate for her for over a decade, but with her not having been a fully recognized member of the Clan, there hadn’t been any men who had wanted to bind themselves to her. Besides the occasional fling, or the even rarer romp behind the aravels, they all ran once things started getting serious. So someone, anyone, finding an interest in her, especially a strong warrior like Souren, was beyond Radavur’s wildest dreams.

She came to the long tent that housed the clinic and ducked her head under the flap. The other four who had been injured in the dragon attack were no longer there, time and her care having mostly healed them on the journey here. But Souren still had some burns on his face, and the bones in his forearm would take at least another week to fully mend.

She glanced down the long row of cots and saw him sitting up in a bed toward the other end of the tent. She also, to her dismay, saw that he wasn’t alone. The stern faced elf who had been standing at the Dread Wolf’s side yesterday was seated in a chair by Souren’s bedside. He had seemed the grim, forbidding sort. She didn’t know how to feel about the hardness in his eyes as he had looked her over, other than that she didn’t care to be on the receiving end of such a glare again.

Souren noticed her and waved her into the tent. She steeled her nerves and went to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen used is from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen
> 
> The name of their halla Gavemah means "about to bite or nip", so that should give you a clue as to his personality.


	3. Interrogation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it says up there in the tags "slow burn" but these two just can't seem to keep their hands to themselves. *shrugs* I've never been a terribly patient person. Nothing steamy yet, just some random touches.

Abelas sighed for what seemed the ten thousandth time this morning. There were things that needed to be done today. Things that he needed to do, and things that he wanted to do. He had never been comfortable in allowing the latter to come before the former, in permitting pleasure to come before duty. Especially not in the last several thousand years, when duty was all he knew. When duty and death so entwined around his spirit that the sorrow nearly crushed him. When he had longed for the peaceful oblivion of slumber, though he knew over time, that the ache inside him would reach even into his dreams. But since his guardianship of the Vir’abelasan had so abruptly ended, and since the Dread Wolf had shown him that his life could still have purpose, he had started allowing pleasure back into his life. 

Just small things at first. Things that he found he enjoyed, like reaching a hand out to stroke a halla’s velveteen muzzle or walking barefoot through a field just to feel the grass between his toes. There had been no time for such things trapped in the Temple as he had been for so long, in a constant cycle of killing and uthenera, that he had forgotten many of the small joys of the life he had known before he had given himself over into the service of Mythal. But every time he took the time for these kinds of simple pleasures, memories of having done the same things in the past came to him like very old, comfortable friends. And before long, he started allowing himself more time unfettered by responsibility.

He still had his duty; a duty which had changed considerably over the last two and a half years, yes, but one that he took no less seriously. And he did his duty with all the solemnity it required as he always had, much to the occasional consternation of his oldest comrades-in-arms. But he found that after his obligations were done for the day, he could go help tend to the mounts as they ate their afternoon oats. Or cook an evening meal for himself and those officers whose tents neighbored his own so they didn’t have to eat commissary food. Or just sit beside the stream that wound its way south of the camp and listen to the water gurgling over the rocks, perhaps even catch a few fish. These were all things that he had discovered he enjoyed immensely.

So today, there were things that needed to be done, a great many things, and he would not have hardly any time for leisurely activities. But the one thing he wanted to do would not take much time at midday. But if he did not start his day soon, his time to do it would run short. 

Instead of beginning his day as he had planned, he stood, back straight, shifting from one leg to the other, in the corner of the command tent with the other generals, listening to the builder Faron present his case for acquiring more construction supplies. Abelas didn’t know why he had to be here for it. Didn’t know why he had been summoned for this impromptu meeting so early in the morning. Did it concern troop movements or training techniques? He didn’t think so. He wondered if he moved slowly enough, if anyone else would notice him edging toward the door flap. 

“The new smithy will tax all of our remaining supplies,” Faron was saying. “If my men and I build it to your desired standards, Lord Fen’harel, which we have every intention of doing,” he held out his hands in a placating gesture as if the Dread Wolf would strike him down for sounding ungrateful, “we will not be able to complete some of the other housing projects we have already started.”

“This is a military encampment,” the spy master Talitha grumbled, “We are not building a town.”

Abelas halted his escape. “We do not only have soldiers here.” He crossed his arms and looked her in the eye. If anyone noticed he was a meter closer to the door than he had been, they didn’t say anything. “When the troops move out, which we are undoubtedly going to do at some point, there will be non-combatants left behind in this place. There are families and children here, the future of our people. Would you have them sleeping on the ground waiting for us to return or plan for them to follow us into battle?”

She scowled up at him. She had to tilt her head quite a bit as he was easily two heads taller. “We have thus far been fortunate that this place has not been discovered by the Ben-Hassrath or the Siccari, but that is all I attribute it to: luck.” She brought her hand up to rub at her forehead, then dropped it wearily. “If we start bringing in supplies by the caravan-load, my network will not be able to keep up with the task of covering our tracks. They will catch wind of our presence in this forest before our plans are ready.”

Fen’harel had been happy to stand back and let them bicker, but now he stepped forward. “The Commander is right,” he said. “We must take care of our people.” -- Talitha shot Abelas a look filled with venom, but he ignored her. He wasn’t interested in playing a game of favorites. Talitha was young, having lived for only four or five short decades, she still saw meaning in such things. – “Begin construction on the smithy,” Fen’harel said to the builder, “but continue work on housing where you can. There will be a new shipment of supplies next week. You may leave.”

Faron bowed to the Dread Wolf, nodded to the others, and left. Abelas gazed longingly at the bright sunshine outside before the tent flapped closed again. 

“Our Spy Master is also correct,” Fen’harel continued, drawing their attention back to him, “It is of dire importance that all opposing forces remain ignorant of our whereabouts. But it is not luck that has allowed us to elude discovery.” He pinned each of them with a stare in turn. “All of you have a responsibility to protect the secrecy of our goals and the means to achieve them. We cannot rely solely on Talitha’s network or on the misdirecting enchantments I have placed on the surrounding forest to keep us safe. Tell your agents,” he pointed to the Recruitment Officer who shook like a leaf at the end of his finger, “to take further precaution in bringing new people through the Eluvians. We need to be certain no one with prior allegiances is brought into the fold. 

“Which brings me to the next matter.” He sighed and turned back to Talitha. “The new blacksmith and his daughter are formerly of the same Dalish clan as the Inquisitor.” A surprised murmur passed between the Recruitment Officer and the Quartermaster. “Send someone to investigate any contact or correspondence between the Inquisitor and her clan within the last few months since my identity was revealed to her. Explore the possibility of a familial relation as well. Monitor any messages they may try to send. I want them under surveillance if they leave camp until they are no longer under suspicion.”

Talitha bowed her head deferentially. “As you wish, Fen’harel. Should they be questioned, too?” 

“I have already seen to that.” His eyes glanced over Abelas as he said it. “That is all. You’re dismissed.”

As the others filed out of the tent, Abelas hung back, feeling uneasy. Fen’harel had turned to look over a map spread on the surface of a low table. He looked up when Abelas stopped at his side. “What is wrong, Abelas?” he asked with a mildly playful tone. “You seemed eager to leave not ten minutes ago.”

Abelas sighed again. Of course the Wolf had noticed his attempted escape. But the disquiet in the pit of his stomach erased the thought of any slight embarrassment. “Do you think the Inquisitor would send her own family to spy for her?”

It was Fen’harel’s turn to sigh and his shoulders slumped as if he were suddenly exhausted. “Truthfully, no.” He dragged a hand down his face. “It would be quite out of character for her. She would not risk putting anyone that close to her in such danger. Although she would know I would spare them for her sake. At least,” here he paused, “I hope she knows that. I do not know what she thinks of me any longer.”

And even though Abelas knew it was no business of his, he still asked, “Do you want her to still think well of you?”

The man before him straightened his posture and stared him square in the face. “Of course not.” But his face softened thinking of her anyway. “I am everything she was taught to fear. It is better if she thinks of me as the Dread Wolf. Nothing more. Perhaps it is wishful thinking on my part that she thinks of me enough to send spies into my ranks. It is, after all, what I would do.” He turned back to the map on the table. “Are you still willing to question the blacksmith and his daughter?”

“Yes, Fen’harel.” Abelas hesitated. “I will speak to them.” His hand stretched toward the canvas of the tent. “If there is anything more-?”

He dismissed Abelas with a wave of his hand.

****************

The midday sun had just reached its zenith when Abelas was able to leave the training grounds. It was a warm day, despite it being late autumn, the heat and humidity lingering for longer this far north than he was used to, having lived in the Arbor Wilds for so long. It was warm enough that he had worked up a sweat on the training grounds. His hair adhered unpleasantly to the back of his neck under his hood and he could feel a bead of perspiration run the line of his spine under the light armor he wore around the camp.

The newest recruits were soft and unskilled, several of them were timid in the face of an opponent, and Abelas would have to work them hard to get them ready to face what was to come. He had lieutenants who were in charge of the training of their troops, but Abelas oversaw and assessed each soldier’s progress personally. With the new ones, he separated them into class and faced each one in the sparring ring. After they inevitably ended up on their backs in the dust at his feet, he had them run laps. Later, he would take his lieutenants aside and discuss what the new soldiers needed to improve on most.

He would meet with his lieutenants this afternoon. Now, he made his way to the large canopy that housed the dining area and the camp kitchen. Hot air hit him in the face as he ducked under the edge of the tent. It was pleasant in the sunshine with a cool breeze that fluttered the tents as it wafted through the trees, but it was stifling and still in the commissary, the cooking fires making it nearly unbearable even with the sides of the tent rolled up. It was no wonder there was hardly anyone eating under the broad canvas. He moved through the line as quickly as possible and grabbed two plates of the midday meal that was on offer, brown rice with a strange orange stew with a meat he assumed was chicken and a chopped salad on the side. He rushed out of the sweltering heat before he had to breathe in too much of the oppressive air.

He carried his two plates to the west side of the camp where the clinic stood. When he straightened after ducking into the tent, he saw that a healer was removing the bandage over Souren’s face and inspecting the eye underneath. He still had his broken arm in the sling, but the side of his face was not redressed after the examination was complete. The burn was still a tender pink but the skin was smooth and appeared to be healing well.

The healer glanced up as Abelas came to a stop just short of the foot of Souren’s bed. “Good afternoon, Commander,” the man said, eyeing the plates in Abelas’ hands. “Is it midday already?”

Abelas hummed in affirmation. “How is the patient doing, doctor?” he asked and set one plate on a tray by Souren’s good arm. He rounded the end of the bed, sitting down in a chair he had placed by the bedside the evening before.

“Quite well,” the healer said, sounding almost surprised. “Better than I would have expected given the nature of his injuries. It seems that the Dalish woman is a competent healer, after all,” he mumbled sourly. “Souren may have lost the eye if she hadn’t been there.”

Souren huffed out a laugh. “I guess you owe her an apology for the way you spoke to her yesterday, then.”

The healer pressed his lips into a thin line and narrowed his eyes. “Hmmm,” he said and returned to the far side of the tent.

Souren turned to look at Abelas. “To what do I owe the pleasure of another visit from the stoic commander so soon after the last one?” he asked, his eyes crinkling in the open smile he always wore when he was teasing.

Abelas picked up his fork and stabbed a piece of meat. “I thought you might be hungry,” he said evasively. He put the bite into his mouth and found that it was indeed chicken and the creamy sauce was, in fact, incredibly spicy with coconut and a hit of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Some kind of fruit, perhaps? It was uncommonly good compared to the usual fare the cooks were known for offering. 

“Right,” Souren said in mock disinterest. “It’s not like you missed me or anything while I was away.”

Abelas exhaled audibly, but he allowed a soft chuckle to escape him. “Well, you are my only friend.”

“Don’t forget it.”

They ate their meal together companionably, Souren stopping occasionally to fan his tongue. Abelas appreciated the level of spice in the dish, but it would be too much for Souren who thought black pepper could be spicy. As they ate, Souren recounted everything that had happened while escorting the recruiting party. He became particularly animated when he got to the part with the dragon and how he was injured. After that his memory was fuzzy. Abelas understood that Souren had been in and out of consciousness for much of the next day. The one clear focus being Varda Lavellan leaning over him, shining like the dawn, whispering again and again that she would take care of him.

Whether Souren remembered it correctly or he had been delirious, Abelas could not be sure. But she did seem to have had an impact on him, he spoke of her with awed undertones. 

Abelas grinned at an ancient memory of Souren as a much younger elf, newly entered into the service of Mythal, before the Fall of Elvhenan, who fell in love with every young woman who smiled at him as he stood guard in the Temple. He would tell his fellow Sentinels of their beauty after the end of his shifts and wish aloud that they would come back someday. Someone had to inevitably remind him what it meant that they had come to supplicate for justice before Mythal and would he really want the beautiful woman to have to come back after all? 

After Mythal’s murder, Souren had retreated into his duty as much as they all had, becoming almost as solemn as Abelas. But it seemed that with the Temple behind him, just like Abelas, Souren was beginning to remember his past life and accepting his natural inclinations again. He supposed falling easily in and out of love was something Souren enjoyed like Abelas enjoyed fishing. Although, with the potential for hurt feelings, Abelas wasn’t sure it was worth it. A fish had never broken his heart.

It was after they had finished eating and Abelas had moved their plates to the side, and while they sat speaking quietly of old times long gone, that Varda Lavellan peaked her head into the clinic. Souren noticed her first and waved her over. She seemed to hesitate for just a moment before fully entering the tent. 

The healer stopped her before she got too far, whispered something they couldn’t hear, and then he left the tent altogether.

She continued the rest of the way to Souren’s bedside with shock clearly written on her face. 

“I hope he didn’t say anything disrespectful to you again,” Souren said as she stopped a few feet from them.

She looked down at Souren, her eyes still wide and gasped out, “no,” she cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, her voice was melodious and surprisingly soothing, “he apologized and then asked me to consider helping out here in the clinic from time to time if they have the need for extra hands.” She sat down on the empty cot behind her, a small, pleased smile spreading on her face.

“Good for you,” Souren said, “I knew he wasn’t a complete ass.”

She laughed. “Just mostly an ass.” And the two of them shared a good-natured snicker. 

“Will you?” Abelas asked, drawing her attention to him. She timidly raised her eyes to his face, not quite meeting his eyes. He knew that he could be intimidating, especially to outsiders, especially in his full armor, especially when he was tense, all of which he had been the first time he saw her. But it was unfortunate if his first impression had made her anxious of him. He was much more relaxed today after his conversation with Souren, which she seemed to sense. She studied him for a moment before answering, her gaze sharp and searching. He could almost feel her eyes tracing his vallaslin, and he wondered again why her face was bare.

She must have realized that she was staring. She dropped her gaze to her hands and when she looked up again, she met his eyes just long enough to answer him before peering around the tent. “I will consider it. I enjoy helping people, chances are I’ll agree. But,” she said with another grin at Souren, “he’ll have to agree to be nice.” And she jabbed her thumb over her shoulder in the direction the healer had gone.

Souren smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but Abelas beat him to it.

“I never introduced myself-,” he started, but Souren took his turn to interrupt.

“What?” he gaped in mock horror, “My good man, where are your manners?” He held his good hand up under Abelas’ chin and smiled at Varda. “This sullen looking fellow is one of my oldest acquaintances. He’s a Sentinel like me and the commander of Fen’harel’s army. He calls himself Abelas, but don’t let the name fool you, he’s every bit as cantankerous as he appears.”

Abelas closed his eyes and breathed in annoyance, trying not to show how much Souren’s antics had a tendency to amuse him, even if Abelas was made the butt of his jokes more often than not.

Varda laughed airily, and the sound pierced his chest. He opened his eyes and saw her beaming at him, which pierced him deeper. “It’s nice to meet you, Commander Abelas.” She extended a hand to him and he grasped it above Souren’s legs outstretched between them.

As he cradled her palm for that fleeting moment, feeling how delicate and slight her fingers were in his, the thought came uninvited to his mind that he could not remember the last time he had touched a woman. He knew he had, countless years ago, caressed a woman in tenderness. Or perhaps there had been more than one over the years. But the only touch he had known for time beyond memory had been in violence and bloodshed, defending his home. 

He released her hand as if she had burned him and retreated into his chair. Why had he thought of that at a time like this? This woman was nothing to him, a stranger. He had no feelings for her to make him think of bedding her, so why? Because a beautiful woman smiled at you, he thought. But no, that was ridiculous, he wasn’t like Souren. Because you’re lonely. And it has been eons since you’ve known any kind of affection or gentleness. He thought that much more likely. 

He was aware of the conversation continuing without him, Souren and Varda exchanging pleasantries, talking about the unseasonable weather, the healer’s prognosis for his injuries. He wasn’t following any of it. He stood and made his apologies, excusing himself before Souren could ask him about his change in mood and Abelas invariably made a fool of himself. 

He stood just outside the clinic door-flap for several moments breathing the fresh air and clearing his mind. He had a job to do here, a purpose to be fulfilled for the good of the People. Those kinds of distractions were the last thing he needed. He made a point not to allow it to happen again.

A soft “Oh” behind him made him turn. Varda had nearly bumped into his back as she left the tent after speaking with Souren for less than five minutes alone. His sudden pivot knocked her off balance. He grabbed at her elbow to keep her from stumbling back into the canvas and dragging the whole thing down around her head. He steadied her by drawing her against his chest. Her fingers found purchase on the buckles of his hooded cloak as she gazed up into his face with wide eyes. Her full lips were parted in surprise and he had the sudden urge to lean in and devour them. 

What was wrong with him today?

He backed away quickly and said, “I’m sorry,” at the same time that she said, “Thank you,” and they stood staring awkwardly at each other for a few eternal heartbeats.

She cleared her throat and bent to swipe at some imaginary dust on the front of her leggings. “Thank you, Commander. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your time with Souren. Did you want to speak with him some more?”

He glanced over her head at the tent. “No,” he said and found that it was true, now was as good a time as any. “I wanted to speak with you.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”

He nodded, squaring his shoulders. He pulled the role of Commander over himself like a cloak, pushing away this strange desire and donning his usual façade of solemnity and indifference. “Fen’harel requested that I ask you some questions.”

Her face fell in disappointment or disinterest, he couldn’t tell which. “Oh.”

He gestured away from the clinic with a wave of his hand in indication that she should follow him. They wove their way through the remaining tents on the outskirts of the camp, soldiers hailing Abelas as they passed, until they found themselves in the wide clearing where the Eluvian sat on its dais. There were no arrivals or departures planned for today, so the clearing was empty and the mirror was dormant. They were alone.

Varda walked to the edge of the ramp leading up to the platform and tapped the hard stone with the tip of her toe. “What questions does the Dread Wolf have for me?” Her back was turned to him and her arms were crossed; she almost reminded him of a petulant child, preparing for a scolding after misbehavior.

Abelas reminded himself that he had permission to be as straightforward as he liked and jumped in. “He wants to make sure you and your father are not spies for the Inquisition.”

She snorted a laugh, spinning to face him. The corners of her mouth were downturned with a suppressed smile and her eyes twinkled as she searched his face, looking for the joke. But her expression fell once again when she saw that he wasn’t smiling. “Creators, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I am always serious.”

She snorted again. “Two Dalish elves who have never spent a day of their lives away from their clan, spies for a massive entity with enough resources to hire a whole legion of trained infiltrators? I’m sure they already have plenty of spies if the rumors of the humans’ new Divine are to be believed.”

“You are from the same clan as the Inquisitor,” he pointed out matter-of-factly.

Realization dawned in her eyes. “Ah… that’s why,” she said as if the thought hadn’t crossed her mind before. Perhaps it hadn’t. “Alright, I’ll answer your questions.” 

“Tell me,” he stepped in front of her so she had to tip her head to look in his eyes, she was not as short as Talitha, “are you related to the Inquisitor?”

“Yes,” she said with a shrug – he was taken aback by that, not having expected honesty -- “everyone in our clan is related to each other in one way or another. That’s why we Dalish go to Arlathvhen to find our mates.” Her expression was open and candid.

“The color of your hair would suggest you are more closely related than the average clan member.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh please,” she laughed with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Over a dozen hearths have at least one person in front of it with this same red hair in Clan Lavellan. Ask Adhlea, she met quite a few of them.”

That could be true. He would ask Adhlea later to confirm her claim, but certain features did tend to run strongly in familial groups; the golden-yellow of his own eyes he had shared with all of his siblings and several of his cousins. They were all gone, now. 

“Have you been in contact with the Inquisitor recently?” he asked, changing tact.

“I haven’t spoken to Eléntari, no,” she said. She thought for a moment, tapping her chin with an index finger. “The last I heard from her was about five months ago,” she looked up into his eyes, “Keeper Deshanna shared a letter she had received from Eléntari with the whole clan. She had written to say that her hand had stopped glowing because she didn’t have that hand anymore, and that she wasn’t the Inquisitor any longer.” Her eyes flicked down to his lips and up again before she turned back to the Eluvian. He made himself ignore it.

She stepped up onto the dais and began balancing her way around the very edge, her arms out to the side, swaying every now and then. It had been awhile since he watched someone in the midst of such a carefree and self-indulgent deed.

“How close of a relationship do you have with her?” he pressed.

“We’ve never been friends,” she shrugged again. The movement disrupted her balance; she waved her arms and stuck her leg out in a comical attempt at regaining it. “She’s about ten years younger than me, so we never played together as children,” she said, continuing to wobble. “We had very separate groups of friends that didn’t mix much. I felt that I was much too grown-up to play with the babies, as it were. And then after my mother died I became a disgrace to my clan, while Eléntari eventually became First to our Keeper, and we had even less to do with each other.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “Why are you a disgrace to your clan?” he blurted.

She sighed and gave up her balancing act. “I thought you were asking about Eléntari.” She turned toward him again. He thought he saw a dusting of pink on her cheeks, but she crossed her arms and stuck out her chin defiantly to cover it.

“I apologize. I did not mean to offend. But you were the one to bring it up.” He reached out his hand to her, his traitorous hand, in an offer to help her off of the dais. She stared at his upturned fingers, but she turned away instead and hopped down just out of reach.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed my lack of a vallaslin,” she began, her fingers flicking up to her face, “while the Dalish are known for having them.”

“It had crossed my mind,” he admitted.

“You heard my father say yesterday that my mother was a slave back in the days of Arlathan?”

He nodded.

“After she joined the clan, she couldn’t understand why everyone around her wore them so proudly. She told my father, and eventually me, what the markings had meant in her day, and she tried to tell the rest of the clan, but they wouldn’t believe her. I don’t think anyone but my father ever really believed her claims of being an ancient, so her credibility with them was already pretty shaky.” Her voice had turned bitter. “I was to come of age about a year after she was killed. You know, have the ceremony and get a vallaslin, become a full member of the clan, but I–“ her voice cracked “—I just kept thinking how disappointed she would be of me,” she said swiping at a tear as it slipped down her cheek. He looked away. “I’m sorry, she’s still hard for me to talk about.”

He dismissed her apology with a wave. “No, I should not have pried. You do not have to continue.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind you, or Fen’harel, knowing the rest. It at least explains why we were so willing to leave them.” She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders in a mirror of his posture. “So I refused the ceremony. I’ve never seen Deshanna so angry before. She stopped teaching me magic and would have banished me from the clan if it hadn’t been for my father. He has skills that the clan needed at the time and Deshanna knew he would not have left me on my own.” She shook her head, still bitter. “Since then, I’ve been somewhat of a non-entity to them. An inconvenient mouth to feed when pickings are slim, but at least I can make a pretty basket to trade for decent coin. And they never let me forget how much of a burden I am.”

If his thoughts toward the Dalish weren’t already so hostile, this story of the treatment of one innocent girl would have enraged him. As it were, it just made him sad. He had met several truly decent people of Dalish heritage since joining Fen’harel, so he knew her experience was not universal, but that it had happened at all was inexcusable.

He was at a loss for words for a moment, opening and then closing his mouth once, but she stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “Listen, I don’t need your pity, Commander, I just want to leave that past behind and start over. I might actually have a chance at a life now.”

He examined her face. Her expression was proud and defiant, intelligence and wit danced behind her eyes in equal measure. He was again struck by how little her features resembled those of the mortal elves he knew. He wanted to say something encouraging, something to convey inclusion amongst the ever growing community of elves they both found themselves in, he wanted to tell her she was beautiful, but instead all that came out of his mouth was, “Call me Abelas.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, suppressed another smile, and let her hand fall from his arm.

“I mean to say, you’re not a soldier, I’m not your Commander. My name will suffice when addressing me.” He faltered and left it at that.

“As you wish,” she said with a tilt of her head. “Did you have any further questions for me, Abelas?”

“Just one.” The direct approach had worked for him so far. “Did Inquisitor Eléntari Lavellan ask you and your father to come here and spy for her?”

“No,” she said. “I doubt she knows even yet that we have left and joined Fen’harel’s cause, unless Deshanna saw the need to write to her right away. But honestly, why would she waste her time?” She paused and met his eyes again. “So, have I passed your examination?”

Abelas thought for a moment. In the entire length of this conversation, he had not detected deception once from her. He gave a sharp nod. “I believe so, yes.”

“Good. Now,” and she pinned him with another piercing look, “I have a question for you.”

He held his hands out in a welcoming gesture.

“Why did Fen’harel pick you to question me when interrogation is clearly not your strongest suite?” she asked, her eyes crinkling at the corners again. So she was teasing him, now?

It was his turn to walk toward the Eluvian. He stood staring at the strangely reflective surface of the mirror, his mouth set in a thin line. “I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

She let loose that light, airy laugh that had so affected him before. “Well, overall, I’d say you did a wonderful job. Although, I’ve never been interrogated before, so I have nothing to base that assessment on.”

His lips quirked slightly at that. “Thank you, Miss Lavellan.”

“Call me Varda,” she said in imitation of his earlier tone. “Is there anything else about which you would like to talk with me?”

He tried to think of something to keep her there, but the nagging weight of his own responsibilities shot to the forefront of his mind. “No, you may go about the rest of your day, Varda.”

She smiled at him gently. “Thank you. Until some other time, Abelas.”

He watched her go. And he went to speak with his lieutenants. But he could still feel the warmth of her hand where it had rested on his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone cares, the meal that they were eating is a reference to my favorite curry at a local Thai restaurant. I know that curry is probably not canonically accurate for Thedas, but what can I say, I was hungry when I wrote that part.


	4. Heavy Lifting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some plot foreshadowing and then a bit of silliness.

Varda breathed a sigh of relief as she walked away from Abelas. She went into the bustling camp, watching Fen’harel’s people go about their daily lives as she tried to calm her nerves. 

She had seen it coming, the questions, the suspicion, she just thought there would have been a more immediate threat of violence involved. She thought it would be an actual interrogation, with ropes and truth serums and fingernail pliers. 

But Abelas had been gentle with her, surprisingly so considering all she had heard of him. She had managed to answer his questions truthfully without giving away too much, but it was a close call. It was a stroke of luck that he had taken the bait and asked about her past. It had distracted him from the task at hand, gave him the impression she was weaker than she was. Which wasn’t entirely a bad thing, given the current situation.

It’s not that she didn’t have painful memories from her time with her clan, she still dwelt far too much in the self-doubt and feelings of worthlessness that they had sown into her life. But she had determined a long time ago not to let them rule her. She had seen her mother roll over and accept the derision of the people she should have been able to trust the most, the people who had saved her and taken her in. To bend over under that kind of abuse was something Varda would not allow herself. All the thoughts of her past did now was serve to fuel her anger and passion.

Her anger could not accomplish much, she knew this; it gave her strength to persevere though. 

But her passion for helping people – for healing hurts so no one had to ever feel like she had, like her mother had – that could change things. Maybe not the world, but if one person smiled because of her, found restoration because of her, that would be enough. 

And Abelas had been… unexpected. He was polite when he wanted to be, kind when he didn’t mean to be, and so delightfully tall. She felt silly for thinking it, for musing on anything about a man’s physical appearance, but it had so surprised her that she almost couldn’t help it. 

It hadn’t been easy for her being the tallest elf in her clan, sticking out like a druffalo in a herd of halla, a trait she had inherited from her mother. Being taller than every man in her life had been awkward, to say the least. Most of them seemed intimidated by her height, many of them even commenting on it. She didn’t know how many times she had heard, “You’d be cuter if you weren’t so damned tall.” That one got old real fast.

But Abelas didn’t seem bothered by it. Why would he? He towered over her. He seemed quite the opposite of bothered by it. She had thought that he was going to try to kiss her earlier. The way he had looked at her mouth after he had caught her had been so heated; the way he had licked his lips had made her sure he was going to do it. But then he pulled away, leaving her disappointed.

She made herself stop thinking about him. She didn’t like the desire that pooled in her belly at the memory of his arms around her, his breath on her face. – Stop it – She had only just met him. And she wasn’t here to fall in love.

And that reminded her of poor Souren, whom she had left by himself in the medical tent. After Abelas had left them, Souren turned to her with a dopey smile and expressed his relief at finally being alone with her. He had used some sappy romantic line on her, but she stopped him before he got too far. She smiled politely at him and as gently as possible explained to him that she was not looking for any kind of amorous entanglement. He immediately apologized and she assured him that it was alright and all was forgiven. But because she was a coward, she had fled with her own apology before she had to talk to him any longer. And then she had quite literally bumped into Abelas’ strong, broad back. – Stop it. – 

She looked around her. She had gone farther into the interior of the camp than she had been before and saw a large canvas canopy rising ahead of her. There was a gathering of people eating at some tables that had been pulled out from under the tent into the sunshine. Varda glanced over those in front of her and saw the chief healer sitting at the table closest to her.

She walked to his side and cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”

He turned his haughty gaze on her. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

She made herself keep her eyes fixed on his face instead of rolling them into the back of her skull as she so suddenly and violently wanted to do. She plastered a pleasant imitation of a smile on her face for good measure. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to thank you for the invitation to help you in your noble work of seeing to the health of the people here,” she said with as much humility as she could muster. “I accept the offer. Please feel free to call upon me whenever you have the need.”

He peered at her through narrowed eyes. “Just like that?”

She nodded. “I realize that we may have started off on the wrong foot. I’d like the opportunity to change your opinion of me, especially if I can do so while using my skills as a healer.”

One of the healer’s dining mates spoke up with a chuckle, “Ah, c’mon, Mathon, you’re always such a stick in the mud.”

“Yeah,” another chimed in, “give the girl a chance.”

The healer, Mathon she presumed, exhaled audibly through his nose with his lips puckered. He looked like he had just eaten ten lemons. “Fine. I’ll send someone to get you if you’re ever needed.”

As if you weren’t the one to ask for my help in the first place, you ass, she thought.

“Thank you,” she simpered. “You can find me in the smithy after it’s built or in my quarters in the grove on the south side of camp.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said with an unconcerned wave over his shoulder. He had already turned back to his friends around the table.

Varda considered making a rude gesture to his back, but walked away instead. She and her father were new here, who knew how long it would take them to find their place in this environment they were entirely unfamiliar with. It wasn’t worth it to start fights, at least not so soon. She didn’t yet know what the plan was.

She turned away from the dining tables and returned to her father. Maybe she could help build something after all.

****************

The next few weeks passed with little else to occupy her mind other than the ache in her muscles. Abelas and Mathon slipped out of her thoughts as she focused on the task at hand. She was able to help Faron and a couple of the other builders more than she thought she would in the construction of the smithy. She never did pick up a hammer, but she became their go-to person any time they needed something heavy lifted.

Once the walls and roof started to go up in the second week, she was called upon more often. She would stand well out of the way and use her magic to heave whatever it was that need to be heaved, beam or stone, toward where the men waited to secure it into place. The workmen seemed entirely indifferent as the objects came flying at them. They just waited patiently while she positioned them properly under Faron’s direction, and pounded in the nails and pegs while she held it in place.

It was during one such instance that a visitor came to observe the construction process. The roof of her father’s blacksmith stall was almost finished, and they were working on piecing together the stones for the furnace and chimney. Despite the bright sunshine, the weather had finally begun to change for the cooler, but Varda didn’t notice it. Her muscles strained and shook with the effort of holding her arms above her head for what seemed an eternity, focusing on holding a particularly large stone in just the right way with the force of her will alone. A sheen of sweat covered her body and dripped down her forehead. The builders slung plaster into the cracks between the masonry they had previously laid until the rock was secure and she could release her hold on it.

Faron called for everyone to take a short break and Varda breathed a sigh of relief as she let her arms fall. She turned to get a drink, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, and saw Abelas by her canteen, standing like he was carved from marble. His eyes jumped to the stonework behind her when she spotted him, but he had been a fraction of a second too slow. She saw him. He had been watching her, Creators only knew for how long.

He bent to pick up her canteen as she approached. “You have impressive control over your magic,” he said when he handed it to her. “I was unaware you could wield magics other than those used for healing.”

It was the first time he had spoken to her since that day by the Eluvian. She had seen him from a distance on several occasions in the past weeks, barking orders to some subordinate or leading a group of green recruits in their drills. If he saw her, he would nod tacitly, but return quickly to his tasks.

She took a long drink before she answered, studying him out of the corner of her eye. He was wearing the dark brown leather armor that most of the soldiers wore around the camp, but he had on the hooded cloak that seemed to denote him as one of the former Sentinels from the Temple of Mythal. Most of them still wore their hoods regularly. It set them apart from everyone else, made them seem like more of a cohesive unit than they were in practice any longer. The only ones Varda had ever seen without their hoods up had been Adhlea and Souren as they traveled together.

The cloak Abelas wore today was fur-lined, reminding Varda of the chill in the air and that she only wore a thin tunic. Perhaps she should go and get some warmer clothes from her quarters. 

“My mother was very thorough in my education,” she finally replied. “She taught me many different kinds of magic.” She took another quick drink. “Is there something I can help you with, Abelas?”

His brow shot up, seeming to remember his purpose. “I am looking for your father. I still need to speak with him about your connection to the Inquisitor.”

A spike of fear stabbed her, but she covered it with another drink from her almost empty canteen. “He’s at our aravel. He’s been busying himself with some small repairs while he is unable to do any forging,” she explained once she had regained her composure. “I will take you there if you’d like.” When he started to protest, she added, “I have to stop in at my quarters anyway.”

He sighed and nodded. “If you insist.”

Just then, Faron walked up to them calling her name. “Varda, I almost forgot, my wife wanted me to tell you that they have some big pots in the kitchen that aren’t being used for cooking anymore. She said they’re yours if you want them.” 

Varda’s eyes lit up, she had been asking around for some pots for weeks. “Yes, I do want them!” she said with a smile. “Thank her for me!”

Faron lifted an arm to scratch at the close cropped hair on the back of his neck. “Yeah, will do. She said you’re going to have to get them yourself, and soon, or the cooks are going to toss them. They’re taking up too much space.” He nodded at Abelas with a “Commander” and returned to the rest of his team.

She beckoned to Abelas. “This way,” she almost squeaked, putting her hands together happily. “Let me take you to my father now, so that I can have time to go get those pots. It’s going to take me a while to carry them all back to my tree.” She started off toward the south side of camp.

He caught up with her before she got too far. “I can help you carry some,” he offered tentatively. “You shouldn’t run yourself ragged.”

She stopped in her tracks. “Really? You would do that?” she asked excitedly, staring up into his eyes. She couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her lips. 

He nodded tacitly again. She bounced on her toes as they turned in the opposite direction and headed instead toward the commissary.

***************

When they arrived at the kitchen and asked about the spare pots, they were led behind the great ovens that were large enough to feed this camp of several thousand elves, to a rack of cookware and cutlery just outside the back of the kitchen. The pots in question, two pyrophite and one iron, were stacked on the ground beside the rack. They were all huge industrial-sized stockpots, Varda could barely reach her arms around them. She would have needed to make three separate trips if she was by herself.

One look inside the vessels, at the pitted and corroded bottoms, explained why they were being retired from food preparation. The cook who led them explained that someone had tried a recipe a few weeks prior that had eaten away at the metal in the pots.

“If you want ‘em, take ‘em, just don’t cook with ‘em or you’ll get sick,” the cook said.

“Oh, I’m not going to cook with them,” Varda assured her. “Thank you.” She went to pick up the one on the top. It was unwieldy and she nearly fell over, but she was able to stand with it after a couple of tries. She glanced at Abelas and saw that he already had the other two hefted in his hands still stacked together. He almost made it look effortless, but she saw his biceps and forearms bulging under his armor. She suddenly wondered what his muscles looked like under all that leather. – Stop it. –

They began the much slower journey to her quarters with their arms full. They walked for several minutes, Varda adjusting her grip every few feet and swearing under her breath, when Abelas stepped in front of her.

“What-?” she said as she was forced to stop. He put his pots on the ground at her feet, gently pried her fingers from the handles of hers, and stacked it with the others. Then he bent and lifted the whole thing with a grunt.

“Oh, you don’t have to-,” she started, but he was already moving away.

“Why do you need these?” he asked through gritted teeth once she caught up with him. She could see that his upper lip was starting to sweat and would bet he wished he wasn’t wearing the fur-lined cloak now.

“I’m going to start making baskets,” she explained as simply as she could. “The pots are for boiling reeds to make them pliable.” 

He shifted to glance at her without turning his head. “Baskets?” 

“There aren’t any basket weavers here amongst the other craftsmen. I’ve noticed a need and I intend to fill it,” she chuckled. “You’d be surprised how useful a good, sturdy basket can be.”

He huffed slightly, but didn’t say anything further. She suspected it might be because he couldn’t. 

She wiggled her fingers in his direction and raised her hand as if she were lifting something in her palm. He breathed easier as her magic took some of the weight of the load off of his arms and back. He looked at her with a very small relieved smile and they continued to her quarters in silence. 

Getting the pots up the narrow stairs at the base of her tree posed a whole new set of problems, especially since Abelas couldn’t see where he was putting his feet, but with her direction and his superior sense of balance, he managed without incident. He set them down with a thud where she told him to on the floor of her small kitchen.

She pulled out a chair for him at her table and he sank into it gratefully.

“Water?” she asked, already pouring him a cup from the pitcher she kept in her ice box.

He took a long draught from it after she handed it to him. And she refilled it when he gave it right back. 

“Thank you,” he breathed. He sat at her table nursing his second cup for several minutes, catching his breath and looking curiously around her home.

And it had become her home since she arrived. There were little personal touches of hers spread throughout the living area, now. The crockery vases on the countertop and table, filled with late-blooming autumn wildflowers, had been a gift from Faron’s wife. She had found some more chairs for her kitchen table, though none of them matched. It could now seat four, but there hadn’t been an occasion for her to entertain anyone besides her father. She had also rearranged the furniture so that the couch faced out of the western side of the tree, and added a few Dalish-made pillows and cushions from the aravel to brighten up the barren space. She liked to sit there in the evenings with a cup of tea and watch the sun set.

To her mortification, a dirty teacup and her dinner plate from the previous night were still on the low table in front of the couch. But if Abelas cared, he didn’t say anything.

“I’ve never been in any of these flets since Faron started building them,” he finally remarked once he had recovered.

“Flets?” she asked leaning against the edge of the counter.

He nodded. “It’s what we call this type of house built around the trunk of a tree. In the days of the empire, they were usually much grander than this,” he stretched out his arm, encompassing the whole of her little world, “but you seem to have made it comfortable.”

She raised one eyebrow at him, not sure if that was a compliment. “Thank you?”

He looked up at her questioning tone and shrugged. “It’s certainly more comfortable than a tent, anyway.”

“Fen’harel wouldn’t give you a flet if you asked?”

“I have no doubt he would, but I have no reason for one.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I have everything I need in my tent. And it keeps me on the same level as the rest of my troops. Reminds both of us I am not any more important than they.”

She nodded, appreciating his sincerity. Abelas struck her as a decent person, possessing a kind of noble humility that she was fairly impressed by despite her better judgement.

He pointed to the stairs leading up. “I assume the upper level is much the same. But I’d rather like to see it.”

She stood up straighter at that, her eyes widening. “You want to see my bedroom?” she spluttered.

It took a moment for what she said to register. And then he sat his cup down heavily, his eyes widening in turn. “No!” he said abruptly, clearing his throat, “that is of course not how I meant it."

“Good, because if it was, you’d at least have to take me to dinner first, Commander,” she teased, emboldened by his discomfiture. 

He stood then and to her surprise, there was color rising to his cheeks. “Thank you for the water. I should be on my way to speak with your father.” He crossed the room quickly and was already on his way down the stairs before she could react.

She rushed to the edge of the platform where she could look out over the clearing and his retreating form. “Thank you carrying the pots!” she called down to him.

He raised his hand above his shoulder in acknowledgement, but did not turn.

As she stood, arms crossed, staring at the chair he had just vacated, she replayed the last several minutes in her head. Shame was already rising in her at the way she had teased him in his embarrassment. She sighed, shaking her head, and cleared away his half empty cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word "flet" is taken from, Sindarin, the Elvish language in The Lord of the Rings. I couldn't find an appropriate equivalent in Elvhen.


	5. Frost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mother's Day! My Mother's Day present was that my husband and kids left me alone long enough for me to finish this chapter. This one kicked my butt.
> 
> I realized while writing this that I should have read more spy novels as a kid. I have no freakin' clue what spies talk about, man. 
> 
> And if you haven't seen it, I changed the exchange at the very end of the last chapter. The original was just too OOC for me. Too much Cullen Rutherford-esque awkwardness, not enough broody ancient elf, if you know what I mean.

Fenedhis, it was cold this morning.

Abelas brought his clasped hands up to his mouth and breathed into the cavity they made, his hot breath billowing out as steam between his fingers. He stomped in place for just a second to get the blood flowing to his numbed feet as they stood on the hard packed earth of the practice grounds. He was glad he made the decision to wear his gold armor today as they accommodated thicker under clothes. 

He would have cast a warming spell over himself, had he not forbade the soldiers sparring before him from doing the same. If this cold snap continued for much longer, he would have to lift that particular restriction. 

The weather this far north was usually milder, the past two winters he had spent with Fen’harel had been pleasant enough. A short, but welcome break from the oppressive heat and humidity of the summers that seemed to last far too long. Occasionally it rained, but it never snowed and the streams never froze. But when he woke this morning, there had been a layer of ice on the top of the water in his cistern. He had to break it and warm it before washing.

Now he stood in the pre-dawn light, observing a battalion of recruits demonstrate the skills they had learned these past months, an icy mist curling around their legs with every thrust and block. His lieutenants who roamed between the sets, correcting technique and praising progress, were bundled up with their cloaks wrapped tightly around them.

He was inspecting the progress of the troops today and assessing the effectiveness of the new training methods they were using. Abelas’ eyes lingered on a petite woman to his right. She had been one of the ones to shy away when he pressed the attack during the first day of training, her arms raised above her head, forfeiting the match herself before he could get a hit in.

Now he watched as she evaded a downward thrust and, gathering a thick smoke around herself, slipped under and around her opponent’s guard to stab him in the back with her wooden training dagger. He saw similar such improvement amongst all one hundred pairs in front of him.

“Good,” he shouted. “Switch.”

Each bout ended and the partners switched who was on the offensive. And the ringing clang of fighting commenced once more.

He had them continue for some time before breaking for breakfast, as the sun slowly rose above the tops of the trees. Despite its brilliance, the warmth it provided was minimal, and did nothing to dispel the lingering chill in the air. He was not looking forward to his shift on watch tonight if this freeze was going to continue. 

Even though he was the commander and didn’t answer to anyone but the Dread Wolf himself, he still liked to keep himself in the watch rotation. The perimeter of the camp was under constant guard, and not just because Fen’harel was paranoid. There was and always would be the very real threat of discovery that necessitated that scouts patrolled the outskirts of the camp day and night. 

So Abelas took one shift a week. It was the one shift no one else wanted to be on: from dinner to just before sun up on the last night of the week. Most everyone else had that evening off. It was the one time they could relax and goof off, most of them getting drunk on the Embrium flower wine some of them brewed. He had never developed much of a taste for frivolity or cheap alcohol, so instead, he stood watch.

After the Lieutenants dismissed the troops for their morning meal, Abelas returned to his tent to prepare his own food. He had a small cache where he stored ingredients in a magically chilled strongbox and a larger chest for less perishable items. He selected a potato, a handful of white mushrooms, and a small onion and set them on the chopping block by his fire pit. 

He had also begun a collection of pots and pans, but he didn’t have much room so his collection had remained limited. He grabbed his skillet and placed it on the grate over the unlit logs.

One of his neighbors built a chicken coop between their tents two springs ago, with several others around the camp following suit. He went and scooped two eggs out from under a broody hen, before returning to start his fire.

He had just called a tongue of flame into his palm when a message runner stopped in front of him.

“Commander, sir!” the man said with a salute.

Abelas glared up from his crouched position. “What is it?” he rumbled before lowering his hand to the kindling. 

The man’s brow creased anxiously. “Sorry for bothering you, sir.” He swallowed. “Fen’harel has requested your presence in Command.”

“Very well. Tell him I will be there shortly.” 

The man ran off almost before the last word left his lips. They had all learned by then that his temper grew short when he was disturbed with official business while he was seated in front of his fire. And consequently, all of his messages, unless they were urgent, were held until he went back on duty. But what could be more urgent than a summons straight from Fen’harel?

Once the man was out of sight, Abelas dropped his head with a sigh. He would have liked something a bit more involved for breakfast, but it seemed it was not meant to be. So instead, he quickly fried up the eggs and put everything else back. 

He was still licking the grease from his lips when he ducked into the Command Tent where the Dread Wolf and Talitha the spy master were waiting for him. They stood on either side of the table with a map spread out and pinned to its surface. A welcome warmth enveloped him as he passed into the area spell that heated the tent. 

“Thank you for joining us, Commander,” Talitha sneered, her lip curling in derision. “I’m so sorry to have disturbed you.”

Abelas straightened, smoothing his cloak over the front of his armor. “Thank you for waiting for me,” he said, addressing Fen’harel.

The as yet silent elf raised a hand to silence another jab by Talitha. “It is no problem, Abelas,” he replied, “We are not in a rush.”

“You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” Fen’harel began his face impassive, “the spy master was about to give me her report on the results of the investigation into Radavur and Varda Lavellan. I am interested to hear what you have found out in your own investigation.”

Talitha looked confused for just a moment before she turned it into a sly grin. “Ah, so the Commander was tasked with the interrogation, was he? And how did that go?”

“We will come to that,” Fen’harel interjected. “Let us hear the news out of Wycome first.”

Abelas was grateful for the opportunity to gather his thoughts on the matter before making an official statement. Especially since Talitha seemed eager to twist his words today, for whatever reason. The truth was, he found the Lavellan woman to be too much of a distraction, both mentally and physically, that he had quite deliberately pushed the entire matter out of his mind the better to focus on his responsibilities. 

Talitha started with a drawn out sigh, as if it was all beneath her. “My agents infiltrated what was left of the Alienage in Wycome. Apparently, having a Dalish Keeper leading the city council has had an impact on the way the humans there view elves. Almost everyone who used to live in the Alienage have integrated into the general population of the city. Along with the Dalish clan, there are so many elves living freely there that our spies went unnoticed.

“It took a while to get close to anyone who knew the blacksmith’s family personally. They kept mostly to themselves. The daughter was something of a black sheep in the clan, so most people avoided them, except for some of the other craftsmen out of necessity. 

“Not much was known about his late wife. Decades ago, she was found wandering in the wilderness and stark raving mad by all accounts. The clan took her in which is when the blacksmith met her. Around five years later, the daughter was born, and several years after that, there was another child. Most accounts agree it was another girl child. 

“When the clan was still moving from place to place in the Free Marches,” she passed her hand over that part of the map, “there was an attack by humans who felt the elves were encroaching on their territory. Clan Lavellan lost rather a lot of people at that time, including the blacksmith’s wife and apparently their youngest child, although accounts vary about what happened to the child.

“As for any connection with the Inquisitor, not many people remembered Eléntari Lavellan as a child. ‘She spent time around every hearth, as all the children do’ as one of the elders we spoke to put it. The Dalish do not keep very good track of their children and seem to let them run wild with everyone taking a hand in raising them,” Talitha laughed derisively, clearly thinking she would do better, “but her family must have been killed in the same attack as the blacksmith’s wife, because after that, she was taken in by the Keeper and raised to be First.”

Fen’harel glanced sadly to the ground. “She never spoke about her family,” he said, so quietly that Talitha did not hear him, for she continued.

“There was no evidence of any correspondence between the former Inquisitor and anyone in the clan besides the Keeper, who has a habit of then sharing the contents of the letters with the rest of the members. The Dalish in general do not appear to be very good secret keepers amongst themselves.” Here she stopped and consulted her notes.

“In the two months since they’ve entered the camp, the blacksmith and his daughter have been under constant surveillance, as per your orders.” She nodded to the Dread Wolf. “They have not acted suspiciously or tried to send any messages to the outside world. They’ve been genuinely helpful to anyone who asks. And as you know, he has begun making armor and weapons to outfit your growing army. They do not set off any warnings to me,” she concluded.

Fen’harel was silent for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Thank you for your report. You may cease the surveillance on them.” Then he turned to Abelas. “You spoke to them,” he said, “what was your impression?”

The spy master turned to him as well and gave him a smile like a cat that just got into the cream.

Abelas didn’t know what she was up to, but he suspected he wasn’t going to like it when he found out. He tried to ignore it and turned his attention back to their leader, clearing his throat. “I agree with Talitha’s assessment that they are not spies. Much of what they said corroborated the story that your agents brought back from Wycome.” He told them of his conversations with both Radavur and Varda, and expounded on the clan’s treatment of Varda and their reasons for leaving. “I feel that they can be trusted,” he said when he had finished.

Talitha laughed and started speaking again as soon as Abelas stopped. “I don’t know that the Commander can be trusted to be an impartial judge of character in this instance.” Her grin turned wicked as she sidled up to him. “The blacksmith’s daughter is a pretty thing, isn’t she? You seem rather taken with her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abelas said, coldly. He steadfastly did not meet her eyes as they bored into the side of his head. 

Fen’harel’s brows rose in surprise and the corners of his mouth quirked up as he studied Abelas’ expression.

“Don’t you?” Talitha continued. “Some of my people saw you flexing your muscles for her a few weeks ago before entering her quarters. They say you were in there for quite some time.”

So that’s what she thought she knew. He was right, he didn’t like it.

“I was in her flet for barely five minutes,” he said before he could stop himself.

“Oh ho! So you admit it,” she crowed, “and that’s saying something about your performance, Commander. Only five minutes, shameful!” She giggled.

Abelas rounded on her, ready to refute her absurd claims, but Fen’harel raised a hand between them. “Stop bickering, you two,” he ordered sharply. “And there is no need to be crude.” He directed the last bit to Talitha. 

She ducked her head contritely. “Apologies, Lord Fen’harel,” she mumbled.

“You will not bring it up again.” He pierced her with a glare. “You may leave. I would speak with Abelas alone.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said and fled into the crisp morning air. 

When she had left, Fen’Harel resumed his study of Abelas. “Is there any truth to her claims?”

“Of course not,” he said, a little too quickly.

The Dread Wolf raised an eyebrow.

Abelas pressed his mouth into a thin line. This was not the conversation he wanted to have this morning. He exhaled in a heavy sigh and elaborated, “She needed help carrying something and I offered. Nothing happened like what Talitha was implying.”

Fen’harel waved his hand dismissively. “I did not think it had. But that part is none of my business nor is it to what I was referring.” 

Abelas creased his brow in confusion. “What then?”

“Are you interested in Varda Lavellan?”

Abelas was going to deny it immediately, but then he hesitated. Why exactly was he so adamant in eluding her around camp this last month? He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again to gather his thoughts. “She,” he swallowed, “she affects me. In a way that I cannot deny is intriguing. But it is most distracting, and I will not let it divert me from my duties. For that reason I have been avoiding her.”

Fen’harel gave him a knowing smile but his eyes held a depth of sorrow that Abelas understood all too well. “Then you are a stronger man than I,” he said simply and turned to look at the map on the table.

“Tarlen?” Abelas asked surprised at the familiarity with which the statement had been delivered.

Fen’harel sighed. “I do wish you would call me Solas, at least when private matters are being discussed.”

Abelas stopped short at that. It wasn’t the first time it had been asked of him, but he hadn’t truly given much thought to the previous request. This particular line of questioning, however, made him reconsider. “Very well.”

“Thank you,” Fen’harel – no, Solas said, still wearing that sad smile. “I will not get into the details of my personal affairs, although we both know of my lapse in restraint regarding another of the Lavellan women. They do seem to have an effect on old soldiers like us, do they not? There would be no harm in a momentary personal diversion, it might even be good for your morale, as long as you do not allow it to keep you from your obligations, of course.”

Abelas smiled grimly, “I do not know if that would be wise. Was there another reason you wanted to speak with me?”

“Returning to the business at hand then,” Solas perused the map again, his fingers skimming over some of the eastern most islands. “Before you arrived, Talitha said word had reached her of the location of an artifact that is vital to my plans. I leave tonight for Llomerynn. And as always, I leave you and the other generals in charge.”

“Yes, of course,” Abelas responded, unsurprised by the suddenness of the unplanned trip. The Dread Wolf rarely stayed with his army for long periods of time, only checking in several times a year. The increased rate that the ancient artifacts were being uncovered, however, necessitated more frequent stays from him. “I will continue the training of the troops and look over the welfare of our people as I always do.”

“I have no doubt in your ability.” And then, strangely, he clapped Abelas on the shoulder. “But at the same time, I both admire and worry about your complete devotion to duty. All of your other Sentinels seem to have found some kind of recreational outlet to aid them in returning to everyday life. Not you.” 

Abelas shifted his feet and looked away from those searching eyes. “Are we still speaking of this, Solas?”

Fen’harel, to his credit, had the decency to look apologetic. “It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. I will not speak of it again. That is all.”

Abelas left the tent with a bow and went about the rest of his day, but he had much more to think over than when it had started.

****************

His shift on watch passed uneventfully. The area of the perimeter that he patrolled, the outskirts of the western side of the camp and the Eluvian clearing, was dark and quiet all night. Except for just after nightfall when the mirror lit up as Fen’harel approached it with a small entourage at his back. Abelas silently watched from just outside the tree line as the Dread Wolf gave the rest of his advisors some last minute instructions before turning to the mirror. The reflected gleam of the Eluvian’s light on Abelas’ armor must have caught his eye because he gave Abelas one final nod, and then stepped through and was gone. 

Abelas went back to his post, sometimes walking the perimeter, sometimes sitting in a tall tree where he could see and hear the entire area. It was peaceful and quiet in the camp after the fires burned low and everyone retired to their tents, something he only got to see in these rare moments. 

He spent the time thinking over the conversation in the Command Tent that day. Of course he had found outlets for himself. Ways for him to just be him, alone. But he supposed that because they were solitary activities, no one else would know about them. All they would see was the soldier, the general. And true, the hobbies he had picked up were the quiet sort that old men enjoyed in their twilight years. Not the boisterousness of a man in his prime. He contemplated which way he truly felt. And that turned his mind to the one thing boisterous young men were particularly known for. 

Making the decision to stop avoiding Varda Lavellan was an easy one, he was already putting too much energy into it as it was. Since she could usually be found in the smithy with her father, it was difficult for Abelas to inspect and approve of the new armor being made if he did not go to see it. It would certainly take some of the pressure off of the already taxed messengers if he just went in person. 

But he also decided not to encourage the flirtation that kept happening between them. And he absolutely was not going to touch her again, that would destroy all of his efforts and he would have to start back at square one. He was not the kind of man to be ruled by his desires, he assured himself.

He thought of his friend Souren as well. After Souren’s wounds had healed and he was cleared to return to active duty, he and Adhlea had left almost immediately to escort another recruiting party. Abelas was not sure if Souren was serious in his regard for Varda, but being away from her as he was would either diminish his interest or double it. Abelas would be sure to ask him how he felt when he returned.

But that made it sound like Abelas was interested in pursuing something with Varda, which he steadfastly was not, so he pushed the whole matter from his mind. For several minutes. Until the image of her green eyes sparkling with mirth surfaced in his thoughts. And all his assurances to himself flew out the proverbial window.

He told himself he would not seek her out later after he got some sleep, and that lie got him through the rest of his watch. 

It grew colder as the night progressed, the freeze growing deeper by the hour. By the time another guard came to relieve him an hour before dawn, he had had to refresh the spell warming his body three times and was growing more perturbed by the strangeness of the weather.

His footsteps crunched quietly in the frost coated grass as he slipped through the still sleeping camp and into his tent. When he emerged again a few moments later into the misty predawn light, he had changed out of his armor into some of the few ordinary clothes he owned. They were woolen and warm, that being all he cared about at the moment. He fastened his fur-lined cloak around his neck again, raised the hood, and with his fishing pole and bucket in hand, made his way south to the stream that flowed just outside camp.

He was not surprised to find his favorite fishing hole was covered in a layer of ice. Hoping the cold water wouldn’t ruin his chances of catching his dinner for that evening, he placed his hand flat on the ice and sent waves of heat out from his palm. Once he had melted a large enough hole, he dropped his line into the water and sat back on a rock, one of many that jutted out at the edge of the stream and made a perfect seat.

He had a free morning as usual after his overnight shift, so he would sit here pulling on energy from the Fade to keep him alert until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. Then he would go get some sleep until one of his lieutenants woke him up at midday to plan troop movements or practice battle strategy or whatever it was going to be today. He’d rather not think of it yet.

He relaxed into his rocky seat and let his mind go blissfully blank for once. He watched the mist swirl around the trees, he watched a fish start to lazily circle his line, and he sat still and thought of nothing. It was beautiful. The light of day began to grow.

And then a twig snapped in the woods on the other side of the stream. And then another one. And another.

He was instantly fully alert, but he remained as still as death. He looked down, moving just his eyes, and saw that the fish had swam away. The sharp snaps continued steadily as they drew nearer. He waited with baited breath to see who or what was coming toward him in the icy fog. It was either something large or someone wholly unfamiliar in woodcraft, probably human or Qunari; no elf would make that much racket walking through a forest. He had no weapons on him. Where was the scout patrolling this section of the perimeter?

A figure appeared under the hanging branches of the willow tree across from him, still obscured by the mist. They were slight, no horns, and had a large bundle strapped to their back. He watched in confusion as they took a swaying willow branch in hand, reached up as high as they could, and broke it off with a snap. They continued in this fashion moving closer to him all the while, until he could make out a hint of bright red hair swaying around curving hips, and he relaxed. 

It was Varda Lavellan, collecting willow and reed and vine in the tall basket on her back. They stuck out like crude arrows in an ungainly quiver. She hadn’t seen him, she seemed completely oblivious to anything other than her task, so he continued to watch her inconspicuously. 

The chilled breeze brought rosy color to her nose and high cheeks, nearly concealing her freckles and making a stark contrast with her otherwise pale complexion. Her jade eyes were bright, focused on her work. Her slender fingers were deft and sure as they measured the perfect length at which to break the switches. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

He shifted, just enough to catch her attention, trying not to startle her. He miscalculated. She swiveled to face him with a loud gasp, her hands flying to cover her mouth. When she recognized him, she let out her breath in a relieved puff of steam, placing a palm over her heart. “Abelas, you startled me.” Her voice was the barest sigh of a whisper.

“You should pay better attention to your surroundings,” he scolded. “I could have killed you.” Her eyes widened in shock at that. “Had I been so inclined,” he amended. “Or I could have been an enemy.”

Her expression grew serious and her eyes shifted back to the branches in front of her. “Yes, of course,” she said, still quiet, “of course, you’re right. I’ve grown to feel safe here, that I forget we are at war.”

“Not yet and not here,” he said soberly.

She raised her eyes to his again. “Let’s hope not.” She snapped off another branch. “What are you doing out so early?”

“Fishing, but you scared all the fish away.”

“Oh I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, but when she saw the upturn of his lips she relaxed and returned the smile. She considered the weight of the burden on her back. “I’m collecting basket-making materials. It’s easiest to break them off when it’s cold like this, so I thought I would take advantage while it lasts. But I suppose I have enough. I’ll leave you alone to get back to it.” She turned to head back to her grove, which he only just realized was a stone’s throw to his left. 

He did not have much time to lament her going. She quickly reconsidered, perhaps feeling his eyes on the back of her head because she turned back before she got too far. She walked up to the rock he sat on, meeting his gaze. “May I join you? I promise not to scare anymore fish.”

He shrugged noncommittally and watched as she searched the area beside his rock for a place to sit. She found another rock a little back from the edge of the stream to be acceptable. When she was comfortable, she removed the basket from her back and, producing a knife from her belt, began stripping the bark from the willow switches.

They sat in silence for some time, the only sound between them the quick slices of her blade and the gentle ripping of bark. He went back to watching his line and saw that the fish had returned. Now he just had to see if it would bite.

Varda waited until he reeled it in and put it in the bucket at his feet before she spoke again. “I wanted to apologize for the last time we spoke,” she started, keeping her eyes on her fingers. “My mouth has a tendency to get me into trouble. What I said was inappropriate. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“You did not make me uncomfortable. Think nothing of it.” Which was true. The only thing he had felt at her suggestion that dinner would earn him time in her bed had been want. Intense and demanding want. 

Talking to her father after she had put him in such a state had made him uncomfortable, but that was not her fault. And she certainly did not need to know about it.  
“Okay, good,” she responded, not meeting his eyes. “I thought that since you seemed to be avoiding me that you were angry with me.”

So she had noticed. He shook his head, smoothing his brow and making sure his expression gave nothing away. “No, I am not angry and I have not been avoiding you. My duties take up much of my time. I have been training new recruits.” He cast his line again. “But you will be seeing much of me in the coming weeks with the increased production at the smithy. I will need to inspect everything.”

“Oh, that’s good, then,” she said, still pensive. She paused to scrutinize a particularly stubborn patch of bark. Abelas turned his head to watch her. She spun to him suddenly, her eyes widening when she found him looking at her. He did not look away. “Because I’d like for us to be friends,” she declared. She must have lost her nerve then because she added timidly, “If that is agreeable to you.”

He felt a smile rising on his face and he nodded. “I would like that.” 

They held each other’s gaze for an extended moment. Until her eyes shifted to the side and she chuckled. “I think you have another bite.”

His attention jumped back to his line and he soon had another fish in the bucket. They both returned to their tasks, but this time the silence between them was comfortable and relaxed. He glanced at her once and found that she had a pleasant grin on her lips and in her eyes. And he couldn’t help but grin too.

He thought about telling her the results of the investigation and that she was cleared of suspicion. He thought about telling her he knew what had happened to her mother. But he decided against it. He felt she might not like him knowing more about her past than what she was ready to tell him. 

The sun rose above the horizon. The frost started to melt. He caught one more fish and found that he could not suppress his yawn any longer. She had stripped all of her willow branches by then and was starting to twist them into thick skeins of whicker. She looked up though when she heard him yawn.

“I was on watch all night,” he explained. His eyelids were getting heavier and he was sure he looked fairly haggard. I should head back, he thought, I have caught more than enough for dinner. And then he had to stifle another yawn. 

It seemed to signal the end of their break because she began packing all of her materials back into her basket. “You should take better care of yourself,” she said. “Take the time to rest properly.” 

He stood, wrapping the line around his pole. “I am fine.” He bent and picked up his bucket of fish.

“I’m sure you are, but you shouldn’t run yourself ragged.” Her brow furrowed and she peered at him piercingly as if she could see all the areas in his life where he had been careless. 

She really was worried for him. How strange. He could not remember the last time someone had cause to show any real concern for his well-being. His heart welled up at the thought.

She stepped closer to him, holding out a hand, “May I help you carry something?”

He huffed a small chuckle, “Your concern is sweet, but I can manage.”

“If you’re sure.” She looked doubtful but she lowered her hand. “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

His gaze grew soft. “Yes, I do. Thank you.”

She smiled with her lips pressed tightly together, as if she wanted to say something more on the matter, but all she did was nod. 

“Until later, Varda.”

“Get some sleep, Abelas.”

They turned away at the same time, walking in their separate directions. When he thought it would be safe, he looked back, hoping to watch her discreetly. She was already watching him. Their eyes met across the distance. She waved bashfully. Then she turned and continued on her way.

As he watched her until the trees concealed her from view, he congratulated himself on the success of a strictly platonic, friendly conversation with her. There was no need to be afraid he would act recklessly and try to pursue her.

Who was he kidding? Well, at least he hadn’t touched her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen  
> fenedhis - common elven swear word equating to shit or damn; lit. wolf penis  
> tarlen - noble, prince, or lord


End file.
